


any which way you can

by traveller



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-02-01
Updated: 2006-02-01
Packaged: 2017-10-22 20:43:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/242379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/traveller/pseuds/traveller
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>Stop me if you've heard this one.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	any which way you can

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into עברית available: [בכל דרך בה תוכל](https://archiveofourown.org/works/953331) by [FlyMeAway](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlyMeAway/pseuds/FlyMeAway)



> with apologies to Clint Eastwood, Kenny Rogers, and probably at least six other people.

**1.**

Stop me if you've heard this one.

Guy walks into a bar, rolls his leather off his shoulders and hands it to his brother, the tall guy coming in just a half-step behind him. Okay, it's not so much a bar and more of a roadhouse, a sawdust on the floor kind of place, like you'd expect to see Sam Elliot any second, you know? Tractor trailer parking out back, no light beer, you know. Okay, so.

Guy walks into a roadhouse, sheds his leather and hands it to his brother, the brother could be ten kinds of dangerous if he was in the mood, but he's not the one with the faint shimmer of crazy in his eyes, he's not the one rolling up his sleeves as he makes his way to the jukebox. Guy takes his wallet out, fishes out a tenspot, feeds it in and the thing spits it out. He smoothes it on the glass, tries it facing the other way; the thing eats it and tells him he's got twenty plays for his money, so he scrolls through the tracks for about a minute or five and then he punches in the same number twenty times.

The dudes in the roadhouse stop finding it funny around about the third, fourth run through, and the guy's just leaning back on the juke, smoking a cigarette with his left hand and working the heavy hunk of silver on his right middle finger with his thumb. Guy grins at his brother, the brother's at the bar with a bottle of MGD at his lips, and when Kenny sings again _the best that you can hope for is to die in your sleep_ , they both cock their heads and smile.

Chairs scrape and boots scuff, and that grin gets wider; the guy crooks his fingers, c'mon, c'mon. Who wants some? The brother takes another long pull off his bottle, says loud and clear: I got fifty on _him_.

Never throw the first punch, and never let 'em get your back too far away from the wall, and never let 'em get you tired early, you've heard this one, right? A gambler never counts his money when he's sitting at the table, and a fighter never counts his take until the neon's faded far down the road.

What? The punchline?

I forget. I think it had something to do with a monkey.

 

 **2.**

Dean is eighteen and a half and the knot of men in the parking lot are yelling and shoving and Sammy's fourteen and three-quarters and they're not supposed to be here. "You're a pretty little fucker, ain't ya?" the guy says and Dean knuckles his nose, rocks forward and back on the balls of his feet. "Shame to mess up that face," the guy says and Dean spits into the dirt and says, "We gonna dance all night or are we gonna fuck?"

 

 **3.**

\--you you're you're gonna get killed one of these days you know those truckers are half of em are on speed and shit one of these days you're gonna go down and not get up again and I can't I I I can't Dean I can't watch that I can't do this anymore it's not just cuz Dad and and I don't I mean I just _don't_ anymore we don't need the money that bad anyway and--

\--shuddup Sammy have you ever seen me go down huh I don't wanna talk about this it's not your decision anyway and--

\--one of these days I'm outta here Dean I swear to God--

\--Sammy you don't have the balls--

\-- _watch me._

 

 **4.**

Dean got his shoulders from his father but his father tells him he got his fists from his mother's uncle and maybe someday if we're ever in Chicago again we can go by the gym and see his gloves and his title belt, hanging there on the wall.

Dad doesn't like it but Dad doesn't stop him because on a good night, a good night in a bad place, he can bring in twenty percent of a five grand take and that means he can pay himself for the stitches in that groove some gorilla took out of his right cheekbone.

Sam got his mouth from his father and he doesn't need fists because he can cut, man, he can cut so fast and easy that you don't feel the sting until you start to see blood. Sam's words are bright steel and silver, and Dean spends the last year or so stumbling around holding his guts in with one hand while he swings away blindly with the other.

It isn't until years later that he finds out if he ever hit anything.

 

 **5.**

Twenty year old punk kid thinks he's Philo Beddoe or some goddamn thing and he's got this brother, this baby faced tall drink of water, and it's a goddamn good thing the brother never steps in, not that he has to, cuz that cocky little fucker, damn if he don't back it up. Two of 'em, never far apart, and god help us all if they ever stopped arguing long enough to fight back to back. God help us.

 

 **6.**

First it was just a hand job after a fight, a little comedown, you know, cuz the kinds of places Dean usually fought in didn't have a lot of available pussy. Dad would be off killing and exorcising, and Dean would be shaking and vibrating with adrenaline and it made sense, sort of, or at least it felt good. First a hand job, then a blowjob, then Sam threw a punch and Dean went to his knees. First it was Sam trying to help, trying to please; then it was Dean trying to hold, trying to keep.

Then it was nothing, until it was again, and nobody saw _that_ coming, shit.

 

 **7.**

It's been uh, he says and his brother sighs and pushes him hard. The back of his head hits the wall and bounces. Been a long time, he says, and their boots bang together and he laughs around the salty taste of his split lip. What? says his brother. Knockin' boots, he says, and his brother grins and gives him another shove in another direction. The mattress has more give than the wall, at least.

Shuddup Dean, his brother says.

Make me Sammy, he says.

Buttons and belts and keys and change hit the floor and Dean is pretty sure that's a quarter that's rolling across the boards, maybe a nickel, something heavy anyway. Sam's hands are rough and wide and his mouth is sharp and wet and he hits every bruise, every goddamn one.

Long time? Sam says with his teeth set in black and blue down on Dean's side. How long?

Dean swings and Sam ducks and they roll and land on top of the buttons and the belts and the keys and the change. The breath leaves Dean's lungs like a popped balloon and Sam leans down hard. How long?

You know how fucking long, Dean snarls, and his fists are full of hair and Sam's eyes are bright with tears that don't fall. He licks there, just below Sam's eye, and leaves a streak of blood behind.

Since the last time, Sam says and he rocks and he shoves.

Since the last fight, Dean says and he shivers and he sweats.

The floor is unforgiving and later Sam will go to his knees and pick the splinters out of Dean's, but in that hour they are full of bad beer and good luck and Sam fucks Dean right there, right there next to the bed that Dean paid for with his blood.

I'm sick of fighting, Dean says, and Sam moves slow and Sam moves deep. Dean shakes.

So don't fight anymore, Sam says, and his lips drag over the line of Dean's jaw. Sam sighs.

Not them, Dean says. You.

 

 **8.**

Stop me if you've heard this one.

Guy walks into a bar, cracks his neck and his knuckles and he's looking for a fight all right, he's looking for a face to put his fist into. Two other guys at a table in the back, heads down, heads together, but don’t think for a moment that they don't see everything, man, don't think for a moment.

Guy says, You, you, kid, I think I hearda you, and the guy at the table looks at his brother and back to the guy and shrugs.

So what? he says. I ain't never heard of _you._

Guy gets pissed, crowd gets outta the guy's way as he swings across the floor, but the two guys at the table don't even blink. They're sharing a cigarette, they're reading an atlas, they've got two bottles sitting in warm puddles on either side of the book.

Step off, says the older brother without looking up, but the guy is pushing up his sleeves.

You heard the man, says the younger brother and he flicks the cigarette butt at the guy's feet.

A swing and a miss, and the older brother laughs and says, What is this, fuckin' baseball? Strike one, asshole. The table tips forward as they rise, and the crowd surges back in for the free-for-all but wasn't nobody counting on this, wasn't nobody counting on both of 'em, back to back.

Bartender says, God help us, and the brothers spit blood and smile.


End file.
